Year 400,
Vel'Cain,
Duskrend
Morning in Vel'Cain broke slow and golden. The sun spilled between rooftops, glinting off dew-wet banners strung for the coming festival. The streets were already alive — vendors shouting over crates of fruit, horses snorting, children darting between legs with wooden toys. Takaya moved through it like a shadow. He hadn't seen this much laughter in weeks. Every sound, every face, felt like something from another lifetime.
He passed bakers hauling steaming loaves, merchants arguing over prices, and a fiddler playing under a balcony. For a moment, he forgot why his hand still twitched toward where Solthar should've been. The scent of iron and smoke pulled him back — the forge loomed ahead, its open doors throwing light and embers into the street.
Inside, the world changed. Heat slapped his face, thick as breath. The clang of metal echoed like heartbeats. Sparks burst and died midair, painting the walls gold. John stood at the anvil — broad as an ox, gray beard matted with soot, arms roped with muscle. He grunted when he saw Takaya. No greeting, no question — just a nod, as though he'd been expecting him all along.
"Coal from the back, iron bars from the cart — and mind your hands," he said, turning back to his work.
Takaya didn't argue. He dropped his cloak, rolled up his sleeves, and got to it. The heat pressed down like a weight, but it felt… grounding. He moved without thought — hauling crates, stacking ore, shoveling black dust. His body ached but didn't complain. For once, there was no fight to win, no death waiting behind the next door.
Hours blurred. The rhythm of hammering and breathing became one sound. Every swing of John's arm rang through Takaya's chest, dull and steady. His palms blistered, his back throbbed, but something inside him — something small and half-broken — loosened.
When he finally stopped to catch his breath, John was watching him with a faint nod, eyes squinting through the haze. "Good. You work like a man who's done worse jobs."
Takaya didn't answer, just exhaled slowly. Sweat stung his eyes, dripping down into the dust.
It was strange — to be surrounded by noise and life, to have his hands stained with soot instead of blood. The forge hissed and roared, and for a moment, standing there in the heat, he realized he didn't hate it. He didn't hate any of it.
The forge door slammed open with the confidence of someone who owned every inch of air around her. Celia strode in, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a smudge of soot on her cheek like a badge of honor. Her hair was tied up, but strands had escaped, framing a face both sharp and lively — the kind that made everyone nearby feel slightly off-balance.
She spotted Takaya immediately, standing near the coal bins, his hands still black with soot. "You're the new helper?" she asked, voice cutting through the heat like a bell.
Takaya just gave a short nod.
Her lips curved into a grin — the kind of grin that always meant trouble. "Perfect. I needed someone to blame when things go wrong."
From the anvil, John groaned without looking up. "Celia…" he muttered, hammer still ringing on steel. "Leave the kid alone."
But Celia was already moving, waving her father's words off like stray sparks. "He looks tough. He can handle a little responsibility."
"Responsibility," as it turned out, meant chaos. Within an hour, Takaya found himself sweeping roof tiles "they collect bad luck," she claimed, organizing a pile of identical pebbles by "aesthetic value," and hauling buckets of water from the well to an empty patch of dirt.
When he finally asked what the water was for, she stared dead serious and said, "You know, hydration. The ground's been sad lately. Maybe you should drink some, might help with those responses."
Takaya blinked. Slowly. Then went back to work without a word.
That unflinching calm only encouraged her. "You really don't get mad, do you?" she said, hands on hips, pretending to study him like some rare, exotic animal. "That's boring. I'll fix that."
Veyl's voice echoed faintly in Takaya's mind, dry and amused. "Ha-ha, I like this one."
Celia caught the faint twitch of Takaya's mouth — almost a smirk — and gasped theatrically. "Oh my gods, he emotes!"
John, still hammering, muttered, "Celia, stop tormenting the boy and hand me the tongs."
"Can't," she said without missing a beat, "he is busy bonding with them."
The old smith sighed, long and suffering. Takaya kept working. And somehow, through the absurdity of it all — through her relentless teasing and the warmth of the forge — he realized the day had passed faster than any in recent memory.
The Veyl hummed faintly, a low vibration in the back of Takaya's mind — not mocking this time, but thoughtful.
Its voice drifted through the haze of smoke and hammer strikes, softer than he'd ever heard it.
"She is… lively. Perhaps your life would've been better with more like her."
Takaya froze mid-motion, fingers still gripping a tongs of hot iron. The words didn't sound like the Veyl — no venom, no sneer. Just quiet observation, almost… wistful.
He blinked, a faint furrow in his brow.
Celia, who'd been rummaging through a crate nearby, caught his expression immediately. "What, hearing ghosts now?" she teased, tossing him a rag.
"Something like that." he muttered, still half-listening to the echo of that strange warmth inside him.
She grinned, brushing soot off her cheek. "Tell your ghost to keep it down. We've got a shop to close."
For once, Takaya couldn't think of a comeback — not because he was annoyed, but because for the first time in years, he'd forgotten what silence felt like when it wasn't empty.
The next morning came with the smell of smoke and bread. Vel'Cain was already waking, full of chatter and hammering from every direction. Festival prep had turned the town into a chorus of clanging pots, distant laughter, and the rustle of banners going up.
By the time Takaya reached the forge, the air was already shimmering with heat. The fire had been burning since dawn. John stood in front of the anvil, bare arms glistening, the hammer's song ringing through the open doors. Celia was there too, sitting cross-legged on a crate, eating an apple like it was a performance.
"Morning, mystery man," she said with her usual grin. "Didn't expect you to return."
Takaya didn't answer, just gave a silent nod and walked past her. She leaned forward, eyes following him like a cat watching a mouse.
"No comeback? Huh. I'll break that wall of yours eventually."
That became their rhythm.
Days blurred into a quiet kind of chaos. The forge roared from dawn till dusk, and Takaya's world became the weight of metal, the smell of coal, and Celia's voice echoing from somewhere behind him.
He carried metal bars across the yard, boots crunching against gravel, while Celia called out instructions that made no sense.
"Careful! That's expensive! It is iron, not a glass, still. If you drop it, it's your funeral, not mine."
Sometimes, she'd give him impossible errands — fetching tools that didn't exist, counting bolts of fabric in the next street over, or delivering "emergency muffins" to the baker next door. Takaya followed through without complaint, and that infuriated her more than refusal would have.
"You're no fun," she'd say, wiping sweat from her brow. "You don't even look annoyed. That's, like, weird."
"I'm working," he replied once.
"No, you're existing. There's a difference."
Even John, the stoic master of the forge, started chuckling under his breath. "Let him breathe, girl. The boy's got more patience than you've got sense."
Afternoons carried a different energy. The air shimmered with heat; the hammer sang its steady rhythm, and Celia hummed tunelessly beside her father, sometimes tapping a spoon against a metal plate in time. Her voice wasn't pretty, but it filled the space — it made the forge feel alive.
There were quiet moments, too. When the sun began to fall, the light slanted through the forge windows and painted everything in orange and gold. Celia leaned against the doorway, hair glowing, her face streaked with soot. John kept working, each strike echoing steady and sure, while Takaya cooled the finished blades in the trough
"You work too hard," Celia said one evening.
"You talk too much."
"Balance, then."
They ate dinner together most nights — bread, stew, laughter, and bickering. Takaya didn't join in, but he listened. He found it… grounding. Human. He caught himself almost smiling once when Celia argued that her father's soup "tasted like molten iron," and John threw his apron at her in mock offense.
When night fell, the forge dimmed to embers. Outside, fireflies blinked through the growing dark.
The days became a cycle — work, banter, warmth. The clang of hammers and the hiss of water cooling metal became something like a heartbeat.
For the first time in years, Takaya felt it — a rhythm that wasn't survival, a peace that didn't feel borrowed.
He didn't count the days anymore. He simply let them pass, the sound of the forge echoing through him like a memory he didn't want to end.
Midway through the week, Celia sits on a crate watching him shovel coal.
"You know," she says, "you look like someone who forgot how to live."
Takaya doesn't look up. "And you look like someone who talks too much."
Then, almost seriously: "You need some excitement. So I'll make sure you don't rust like the tools here."
She hops off the crate, brushing soot from her hands. "Shift's over. Come on."
Takaya arches a brow. "Where?"
"Somewhere you can't brood."
He doesn't answer, but when she turns and starts walking, he finds himself following anyway. The streets outside the forge are quiet — the late sun spilling molten light across the cobblestones, the sound of distant chatter rolling through the square. Celia leads him to the back of the forge, where a crooked little fire pit waits beside a dented cooking pot.
"Lesson one in post-shift survival," she says, dumping a basket of vegetables beside it. "Cooking."
Takaya eyes the setup like it's a trap. "That's… your idea of excitement?"
"Hey, metal melts at the forge, food burns out here — it's all alchemy."
She hums tunelessly as she works, slicing wildly uneven pieces of carrot and onion, tossing in herbs with theatrical flair. Takaya watches for a while, then sighs and kneels beside her, taking the knife to even out her chaotic work.
She blinks. "You cook?"
"No."
"Then why are you cutting them like a perfectionist?"
He pauses, blade midair. "Force of habit."
She laughs, soft but real. "Everything you do feels like it matters too much."
He doesn't reply. The fire pops, sparks drifting like tiny embers toward the twilight sky.
When the pot starts to bubble, Celia hands him a wooden ladle with mock solemnity. "Your turn, Master of Precision."
He takes it without protest and stirs slowly, methodically, the same way he handles iron — patient, deliberate, careful not to break the rhythm.
Celia watches him with a faint smile. "You know… you're weirdly peaceful when you're not overthinking."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late."
They sit there until night folds over the town, the forge's glow flickering through the open door behind them. John's hammering fades into silence, and for once, everything feels still.
When Celia finally speaks again, her voice is quieter, less teasing. "You ever smile?"
Takaya exhales through his nose — something between a laugh and a sigh.
"Good enough," she says, grinning. "Progress."
He doesn't say anything back, but in the faint firelight, his expression softens — barely, but enough for the moment to feel whole.
And that's how the days begin to blur: steel, sweat, laughter, and something fragile beginning to stir in the quiet spaces between.
There's a moment where Takaya pauses while polishing a blade.
The sound of the whetstone fades beneath the low hum of the forge. Sparks rise, catch the air, and die before they ever reach the ground. The heat presses close, alive and rhythmic, wrapping him in a strange calm he doesn't quite trust.
He looks down at his reflection in the metal — distorted by light, ghosted by fire. For a heartbeat, he doesn't see the wanderer or the swordsman. Just a man with soot on his hands and tired eyes.
The realization creeps up on him: he hasn't thought about the road, or Solthar, or the weight of battle in hours. No blood, no ghosts, no restless whisper of purpose.
And it unsettles him.
The Veyl stirs within, its voice a low thread of sound, neither taunting nor cruel — almost tender. "Peace disarms even the strongest."
Takaya's hand stills over the blade. He doesn't answer, but there's a faint ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it appears. He wipes the edge clean and slides it carefully onto the rack, as though afraid to break the fragile stillness that's settled over the room.
By nightfall, the forge has dimmed to a warm, breathing glow. Rain taps against the shutters, soft and steady. The air smells faintly of iron, ash, and bread.
Celia appears from the doorway, balancing a tray with three steaming bowls and a loaf of bread still wrapped in a cloth. "Dinner's ready, old man," she calls to her father. "And before you ask, yes — I remembered the salt this time."
John grunts from the corner. "That's a first."
She sticks her tongue out before setting the tray down on a small table near the fire. Takaya wipes his hands on a rag and joins them, silent as ever. The warmth of the soup seeps into his fingers through the bowl — unfamiliar comfort.
John and Celia's conversation flows around him like an old song. They argue about a broken hinge, about the way she mismeasured a blade handle, about whose turn it was to clean the chimney. It's sharp, lively, unfiltered — the kind of noise he's forgotten existed.
Takaya doesn't join in. He just watches — the flicker of the forge light across their faces, the way John's rough laughter fills the space, the way Celia gestures with her spoon like she's commanding an army.
Celia catches him looking and smirks. "You can laugh, you know. I won't tell anyone."
Takaya glances at her, deadpan. "Noted."
John chuckles, shaking his head. "About time someone knocked some life into you."
Celia beams. "Told you I'd fix him."
Takaya exhales through his nose, pretending to be annoyed, but his eyes soften. It's not quite a smile — more like the shadow of one, a small crack in the wall he's built around himself.
Outside, thunder grumbles somewhere far off. Inside, the forge hums low and steady. Celia keeps talking, John keeps teasing her, and for the first time in a long time, Takaya lets the sound fill him — not as noise, but as something that feels like belonging.
He doesn't say it, but the thought drifts through him, quiet as ash in the air:
If this is peace… maybe it isn't so terrible.
The next day, while helping move a wagonload of tools, Celia casually drops it again:
"Festival's next week. You're coming with me."
Takaya glances up from the cart. "Why?"
"Because watching fireworks alone is depressing. And because I said so."
She's grinning, but there's real warmth behind it — not teasing, not daring, just simple and human.
For a moment, Takaya studies her — the smudge of soot across her cheek, the light in her eyes, the way she says it like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He hesitates, then nods once. "… alright."
"Good, just don't die on me." she says, turning back toward the forge.
As the day winds down, the hammering stops, the air cools, and the glow of the forge softens to a slow, red heartbeat. John locks the doors with a tired grunt. Celia waves lazily over her shoulder before disappearing into the night.
Takaya lingers by the coals, watching the last of the sparks rise and fade. The workshop feels different now — still full of noise and heat, but beneath it, something gentler hums. Something like belonging.
The Veyl's voice brushes faintly through his mind. "You seem happy."
Takaya answers under his breath, "Just tired."
But the firelight catches on his face — and for the first time in a long time, he doesn't look haunted. Only quiet. Only still.
Outside, the wind carries the faint sound of laughter from the streets beyond. The village breathes, alive and waiting.
Tomorrow will come, and with it, the festival.
For tonight, though, peace is enough.